The Last Consulting Dectective
by Eligrl77
Summary: AU where Watson never had a chance to enter Sherlock's life.


Local London Army Doctor Killed in Afghanistan

The remains of an Army Doctor killed in Afghanistan are being returned to Dover Air Force Base today.

CPT John Watson, of London, was one of four soldiers who died Sunday when their unit was attacked with an improvised explosive device in Kandahar Province, according to the Department of Defense.

Watson, 25, was assigned to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers out of Fort Norfolk, UK.

He was killed while moving to aid a wounded soldier, Lt. Col. Patrick Ellis, commander of Watson's battalion, said in a statement.

"CPT John Watson was a brave and incredibly talented doctor," Ellis said. "His actions that night were in keeping with the epitome of the Ranger Creed: 'I will never leave a fallen comrade.'"

He enlisted in the Army in February and was on his first deployment to Afghanistan.

He is survived by his sister Harriet, of Lancashire, UK as well as his mother Irene.

Molly watched as his chest rise and fall. She knew it was mainly because of the machine keeping him alive. The questions kept plaguing her mind. Why did Sherlock have to jump off a building? Was being deemed a fake, the cause of all of this? Was Moriarty all to blame for this? Or was it just a long massive buildup to self destruction? She rocked back in the plastic visitors chair besides his bed as the machines around her annoyingly buzzed. Of course, he had cocaine in his system also. She could barely his face in the sea of bandages and casts all over his body. She held little of his pale limp right hand as she could. Her hands making sure a pulse could still be felt. They were never friends really, just work colleagues. He would be a consulting detective and in various high states, solve them. He was a genius and everyone knew it. People even like Sally and Anderson, who continually taunted at him and behind his back knew it. He would find the missing pieces. He always did. She loved him for that. She loved when he wouldn't be high. She loved when he would walk in, and still make her heart melt. He could be as fowl as he wanted, and she would still forgive him somehow. She loved the small instances where he would appreciate her hard work. The last words he ever told her haunted her mind: you do count.

Her thoughts were interrupted, by a man in a fancy suit and carrying a long pointy umbrella. He eyed her suspiciously for a moment before speaking.

"Who are you?" he asked sternly.

"I'm… Molly Hooper. I know Sherlock working at the morgue. He was… my work colleague and friend," she replied timidly.

"Well, I am his brother Mycroft. He _never_ _had _friends," his bitter words spat out. "He was so intelligent but he threw it all the way, all the time."

"He…he never told me you had a brother," she nervously pushed back her hair in her messy ponytail.

"I bet you didn't tell you a lot of things," he rolled his eyes. "I bet he didn't tell you the amount of times I had to save him from dealers because he wouldn't pay back for his drugs. That lover he had in Uni that got him into drugs. Victor was his name. I would sure like to kick his bloody arse if I had the chance," he adjusted his rather expensive looking tie.

"He was… gay?" At that moment Mycroft started laughing at her. At least it was only a few seconds before he spoke again.

"That was the only relationship I know my brother had with anyone. Victor left him eventually because he couldn't stand my brother's ever increasing drug habit. It scarred him from anything relations of that kind again… Oh no, don't tell me you liked my brother did you?"

"Me?" she said that in a higher pitched tone. "Well… he was very nice. He could be sweet once in a great while. He was a great person when he wasn't on drugs."

"How ironic, this coming from the same women who was stupid enough to date James Moriarty?" he grimaced at her.

"I didn't know James was like that at all," Molly got defensive. "I only went out three times with him and I ended it. Where were you Mycroft? Where were you when he would be high coming to look at cases in Scotland Yard? Where were you when he tried to… have his way with me? He didn't even remember that. I couldn't even be in the same room with him for weeks. I was so afraid of him. Yet I loved him too," the words flowed out of her as she sobbed with her head facing the floor. After some minutes, Mycroft spoke again.

"Maybe it was for the best Miss Hooper. Caring is not an advantage on the winning side. Perhaps you will choose better next time. I would like to be alone with my brother please," his words like salt into an already devastating wound. Molly, feeling deeply humiliated didn't even bother to acknowledge him anymore. She took some tissues, adjusted her lab coat, and hurried out the door. This would be the last time she would speak to anyone with the last name of Holmes again.

Mycroft brushed this encounter out of his mind as he took his seat next to his prodigal brother. He knew Sherlock could manipulate people easily to get what he wanted. He used Molly so he could help solve his cases. Of course, she got nothing in return. Mycroft knew better. He would save Sherlock from his drug plights, but after false promise after false promise of getting clean he simply stopped trying. His job with the British government felt highly more important than dealing with a drug addicted brother. Even with the case involving the scandal in Belgravia, it was more of a clear annoyance. Who else would show up in a bed sheet, completely high at Buckingham palace? He couldn't protect him anymore. Not from this fall and all that happened before it.

At least an hour had passed before he heard a knock on the door. It was DI Greg Lestrade. He looked as drained as Mycroft was. He could tell Greg had been crying and had at least hit a few pubs before coming here. Mycroft said nothing at first before Greg took his chance.

"Thought I would… come down to see how Sherlock was," Greg awkwardly shuffled standing there. It pained him deeply to see Sherlock like this. He looked at Mycroft's face for a similar reaction, but nothing was there but a blank slate. Greg knew Sherlock had a brother. His nickname was the British government. Greg knew Sherlock had stolen IDs to get in places. That was just how Sherlock worked. He would be more than happy to step on people if need be to get what he wanted. Greg watched Sherlock and the monitors before turning his eye back to Mycroft.

"Did they catch Moriarty?" he asked.

"Yes and killed himself as soon as it was all over. Not quite the justice Her Majesty has in mind of hearing," Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Is Sherlock going to be okay?" Greg said concerned as he got a closer look at the pale and lifeless Sherlock in bed. Connected to so many machines, the hum could be unbearable at times.

"Well Inspector, he did jump from a building and high on cocaine. I will be surprised if he makes it. If not it is sheer dumb luck for him then," Mycroft stared back at his brother.

"Why aren't you upset? Shouldn't you be? You might be losing your brother!"

"I have had to mourn losing my brother for years to drugs. Now excuse me detective I would like some more time alone with my brother," he grimaced at him. They stared at each other for a second before Lestrade angrily opened and shut the door loudly. Mycroft didn't want to add to his temper. He could tell from his left thumb his wife had left him the same day. Another hour of silence with his brother and a small knock came at the door. A few doctors came in, explaining to Mycroft his brother's condition they deemed as brain dead. He sternly signed the papers before getting ready to leave. He would not wait around to see them do the deed.

"Adieu, dear brother," he said under his breath before briskly leaving.


End file.
